


the art of glitter

by Sour_Idealist



Series: Glitter and Shine [1]
Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: Brief Sexual Fantasies, Developing Friendships, Gen, M/M, Makeup, Post-Canon, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:55:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21921781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sour_Idealist/pseuds/Sour_Idealist
Summary: Lio is becoming increasingly sure that Burning Rescue is, by even the standards of ordinary people, fucking weird. For example: “Galo!” Aina says. “Come here and let me play with your face.”
Relationships: Aina Ardebit & Galo Thymos, Aina Ardebit & Lio Fotia, Lio Fotia/Galo Thymos
Series: Glitter and Shine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584907
Comments: 24
Kudos: 360





	the art of glitter

**Author's Note:**

> When I started this, I was planning to write Galo/Lio smut with makeup kink. Then it turned out to actually be about Aina. A sequel with the actual planned smut may eventually materialize; in the meantime, here's nearly 5000 words about deepening your relationship with someone you respect while also being horny for how your boyfriend looks in lipstick.
> 
> Reposted because it kept force-backdating.

Lio never realized, growing up, how little he knows about the world outside the Burnish.

He wouldn't trade his life, even now. He can't wish away the memories of fire washing away the scrapes of his early fumbling steps, of light in his hands as far back as he can remember. If anything, the loss of the Promare makes him gladder for it – there's no use, now, to the way he used to know the fire, but he's grateful to have held it for as long as he did.

The fact is, though, in the world after Parnassus, he has no idea what normal looks like, even less than most of his people. Some days it's speed limits and parking permits, insurance rates and legal ID to wrangle; other days it's startlingly small white dogs, revolving doors (he mostly went straight through glass), cotton candy in pastel puffs, a still-arcane distinction between noodles which are and aren't supposed to be eaten with chopsticks. All equally new and unfamiliar.

Nonetheless, he's becoming increasingly sure that Burning Rescue is, by even the standards of ordinary people, fucking weird.

For example:

“Galo!” Aina says. “Come here and let me play with your face.”

No one other than Lio seems to think this is an inexplicable sentence. “Sure!” Galo says, instead of _what are you talking about,_ and plops himself down at the table next to Aina. She's leaning half out of her chair, dragging something over to her: a silver case, which sends a shock of wary tension down Lio's spine until he recognizes the pink pom-pom hanging from the handle and also that this is Aina, who is almost as brightly transparent as Galo and has earned Lio's trust as much as anyone has.

“So,” she says, popping the case open on an astonishing assortment of brushes, tubes, and jars. “Anything you want?”

“Don't do the weird one again,” Galo says.

“Which one's the weird one?”

“The weird one with the powders!”

“Galo –”

To be fair, Lio's craning his neck from the couch to try and see what she even _has_ in there _,_ and it mostly looks like things he would describe as powders.

“The one that makes my face a weird shape,” Galo says, and Aina nods as if that makes any sense at all.

“Okay so easy on the contouring,” she says, and starts digging what looks like nothing as much as a shimmering spice rack out of the case. Lio scoots forward, warily intrigued, as Aina pushes back Galo's hair.

“Hold your face still,” she orders, brandishing a massive brush full of some powdery brown stuff. “This is just some foundation.” Lio genuinely can't tell if that means anything to Galo or not, but she tilts Galo's chin up with her fingers, and Galo lets her turn his face this way and that with the faintest press of her fingers against his jaw. He looks calm, under her ministrations, even serene, which is... a rare expression, on a waking Galo Thymos.

“Okay, that'll do,” Aina says at last, sitting back. Galo doesn't look that different to Lio, but... okay. “Hm. I think I still have that one eyebrow pencil, hold on.” She ducks into her case for a second – there is a _lot_ of stuff in there – and pulls out a deep-blue... well, a pencil, except that it is apparently for eyebrows. She shoves Galo's hair back from his face again and starts working, tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth.

“Your eyebrows aren't blue,” Lio says to her, just in case this is not evident to the rest of the room. “Do... you turn them blue?”

“Nah, she just likes putting this stuff on other people,” Galo says, a little strangely because he's clearly trying to hold his face extremely still. Aina smacks him on the shoulder anyway, which sends an irrational possessive shock through Lio's gut. (He sets it aside. Galo is his, always, but he's Aina's too and first, if differently.)

“That's kind of true,” she says, and tilts Galo's head back for a better angle. She doesn't seem to have any kind of extra color in her eyebrows, though Lio's not entirely sure he'd be able to tell. Her voice is distant, far more focused on her work. “I... people would give Heris science kits and they'd give makeup kits to me, and I did like them, but after a while I couldn't tell if they thought it was okay I wasn't smart because I was the pretty one, or telling her it was okay she wasn't pretty because at least she was smart, or...” She turns Galo's head to the other side, starting in on the other brow. “Anyway, for a while we had this pact, we'd get up early and I'd do matching makeup for both of us. It was fun. But then she got busy, and she wouldn't have time, or she'd need to have a subtle face for an interview and I'd be out sweating all day or going out that night or... whatever. So...” She goes still, very suddenly, and glances up at Lio. “Sorry, I didn't mean to bring her up.”

“'An I move my ace,” Galo asks, lips barely moving. Aina blinks.

“What? Sure,” and Galo immediately surges forward to pull her into a hug, squeezing her close. “I – what, no, don't smear the foundation, _don't smear the eyebrows,_ none of that has set –”

“It's fine,” Lio says quietly, “his eyebrows are nowhere near you.” Hesitantly, he reaches down to rest one hand on Aina's shoulder. He carries too many ghosts to ever forgive Heris Ardebit, but she's still Aina's sister, and Aina is one of his people as surely as if she'd once called fire from her hands. She's more than earned that from him, between her courage and her honor.

“Well, I think you're smart _and_ pretty,” Galo says into her hair. “So there.”

“And brave,” Lio says, quiet, and hopes the weight of his hand is enough to say the rest.

“Yeah, that too.”

“Thanks.” Aina sniffs into Galo's shoulder for a moment, then sits up, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “Anyway – the point is.” She clears her throat. “I still wear makeup when I feel like it, but I like putting it on other people more. It's fun.”

“Okay,” Lio says, and sits back, because he can take a hint when it's chucked at his face at high velocity. Galo seems willing to take this one for now; he settles back again his own chair, still easily within her reach. It's strange the way one anger can live nested inside another, like the flickering blue at the base of a golden flame: how he can despise Kray for what he did to Lio's people and for what he did to Galo's heart, how he will always measure Heris against the ashes of the dead and yet also call her to account for the tight strained line of Aina's back. He can't do much for Aina in this but move the conversation on, so move on he will. “What else do you do with his face?”

“Lots,” Galo says.

“Eyes next,” she says, digging in her bag. “What kind of color scheme should I do?”

“Do the gold one!” Galo says. “That looked awesome.” His eyes flutter closed, his lashes a delicate brush against his cheek. Lio tries to imagine what gold is going to look like on his eyes, and can't.

“Good, you're ready,” Aina says, unscrewing a jar from the depths of her case.

“She's holding brown,” Lio tells Galo, because she clearly is.

“It's a neutral base,” Aina says, which, if she says so, and leans in, tilting Galo's face up to the light with a gentle pressure on his jaw, and Galo goes. Lio's never tried moving Galo around like that, both gentle and commanding. It just never occurred to him in the time they've been learning each other.

“There we go,” Aina murmurs to herself, and comes back at Galo again with – still not gold, apparently, some dark bronze-coppery stuff, followed by a pale gold- _ish_ powder and finally a bright shimmering powder that actually, to Lio, looks like gold. A few puffs of glitter drift free from her busy brushes and settle on Galo's chest, a tantalizing shine along his collarbone, the line of his pec.

“Eyes open,” Aina says, going with a very pointy pencil very close to Galo's eyeballs – but, again, Galo just lets her do it, obedient and still. “Look up.” And Galo does, his hands braced behind his back. Lio's mouth is maybe going a little dry, watching this play out. “Mascara time.” Mascara, apparently, is _spiky_ , and 'mascara time' must mean something to Galo because she puts the spiky wand near his eye and says, “Now,” and he... blinks?

“Again,” Aina says,” and Galo does, and okay, looking closely this time, Lio can see that the wand is doing something to his eyelashes, adding something inky and dark and shining to each individual hair. Not much of Galo is anything you would call delicate, but his eyelashes are, now that Lio is looking.

“Hm.” Aina sits back on her heels, pursing her lips. She caps the terrifying spiky wand and, with one proprietary finger under Galo's chin, turns his face to Lio for inspection.

Holy shit.

Aina clearly knows her art well, and it clearly _is_ an art. Galo's eyes are framed in luminescent layers of brown and copper-bronze, flaring out to high and sparkling gold; his gaze is more intent than ever, a vivid shock of blue. He could knock people over in the street, like this; he could knock over Lio without lifting a finger.

Aina lets out an expressive snort. “Yup,” she says, to some question she hasn't voiced, and taps Galo's shoulder to drag his attention back to her. (Lio could thread his fingers into Galo's hair and pull, drag that shocking look right _back_ – not the time, not the place.) Aina's pulling yet _more_ things out of her bag, and Lio's starting to get a little concerned about his air supply. And blood supply. There's a general supply-chain problem which Aina's work is exacerbating.

“Hey, I said not to do the face-shape thing!” Galo complains, but he's _still_ obediently, fascinatingly still as Aina comes at him again.

“It's just some blush,” she says elliptically. She has a thousand brushes in that bag, it appears, each one a different shape. “Okay, and now the lip.” Lio has had some vague idea this is coming, and notes with some dread that the tube she pulls out of the bag is a deep and brilliant red. It turns out to be a sponge on the end of a stick, and Galo purses his lips without even needing to be told. How often has Galo just wandered around the firehouse looking like this? Has someone gotten hauled out of a fire by Galo wearing incandescent gold?

Aina rolls the red across Galo's pursed lips, staining them rich and crimson deep, and Lio wants to follow the line of color with his own mouth, with his tongue, with the bright pressing head of his cock.

“There!” Aina says, and sits back, capping the stick. Lio crosses his legs as casually as he can possibly manage, starting to regret his tastes in leather.

“Whatcha think?” Galo asks, beaming up to Lio, and – wow. It's not as if Lio couldn't stare at Galo for hours under ordinary circumstances, but this is everything Lio loves about his face being _shown off._ His eyebrows, ever-expressive, draw dramatically down to the shine around his eyes; the flush on his cheeks picks out the fine shape of cheekbone, draws Lio's attention by contrast to the clear line of Galo's jaw; his mouth is a sin, fire-hot and gleaming.

“You look good,” Lio says, once he can force his tongue to move. It's a criminal understatement.

“Thanks!” Galo says, beaming, and Lio is absolutely, absolutely doomed. He takes a deep breath in through his nose and out, willing himself towards calm. He licks his lips.

“Hey,” Galo says, “you should let her try it on you, it's fun.”

Aina cocks her head, halfway through tucking a brush back into her case. “Can I?”

Lio thinks about it. He's kept people very literally at arm's length for a long time now, though Galo's casual touch has been whittling that away, and he's not sure he has that same easy, two-finger compliance in him to offer, whether to Aina or to anyone. But – well, he does like Aina, because she's one of Galo's people and because she fought for his, and he's kind of curious about what she's going to do.

Also, if he agrees, he can sit himself close to the table and get a little cover here. Aina's a beautiful woman, but her touch isn't likely to get him into trouble the way Galo's will. (It's not that Lio's entirely without interest in women – he isn't – but it's rarer for him, and Galo is anyway in a class of his own.)

“I might stop you,” he says. “It depends.”

“Okay, sure,” she says. “Just don't stop me when I've only done one eye or you'll look really stupid.”

“It washes off, doesn't it?” he asks, scooting off the couch.

“NOPE,” Galo says gustily.

“Shut up, it does eventually,” Aina says. “I've got some makeup remover in my bag anyway, I guess.”

“I'm concerned already,” Lio says, but the table's plausible deniability is not to be underestimated, and even if he does end up ridiculous, he's unlikely to have work to do outside the firehouse today. (He's waiting on emails from seven different people at once. He doesn't _miss_ the wild days, but these long months on, sometimes he has to remind himself that he doesn't.) He lays claim to Galo's seat; rather than taking the couch, Galo grabs another chair, leaning in over Aina's shoulder. Aina reaches out, tilting Lio's face – he tests himself carefully, finds his skin not crawling – and pauses, nose wrinkling.

“Hold on,” she says, and rubs a finger inquisitively over his cheekbones. Lio wrinkles his nose right back, more baffled than anything else. “ _Wow,_ your skin is dry.”

“It's... my skin,” Lio says blankly. “What?”

She sighs. “Hold on.” Back into the case, this time with industrious and dedicated rummaging. Lio stares at Galo, who shrugs and says, “She's gonna give you an ointment thing.”

“Moisturizer,” Aina corrects, pulling out a tube significantly larger than anything else that seems to exist in this bag. “Let me see your hands, I bet they suck.”

“His hands are nice!” Galo protests.

“I don't need to know I don't need to know I don't need to know,” Aina says, and holds out her hand for Lio's. Somewhat wary, he peels off his gloves and presents his fingers for her inspection.

“ _Yikes,_ ” she says, and squirts a massive glob of ointment into her palm. She smears it unceremoniously on the back of each hand. “There, rub that in.”

“I got it!” Galo says, leaning past her to grab Lio's hand between both of his. Aina rolls her eyes again, but there's a smile tugging at her mouth.

“You two,” she says, and goes for Lio's other hand.

“You realize I can rub my hands together without help,” he points out.

“But we're great at it,” Galo beams back, rubbing his thumb affectionately into Lio's palm. It feels simultaneously helpless and decadent, both his hands captured as the two of them work the ointment into his skin. The stuff stings in odd patches, winding lines of pain, but it's mild, and after the first bite the coolness of it becomes soothing, easing a discomfort he hadn't really noticed until it now starts to fade.

“There,” Aina says, while Galo is still kind of petting the back of his hand, and drags Lio out of his reverie by shoving a whole lot of cold semi-liquid onto his cheek without warning. Lio may make a small sound of objection.

“Is someone dying in – y'know,” Varys says, sticking his head around the door, “I could say a lot of things here. I'm not gonna, but I could.” He withdraws his head, apparently giving up on the lot of them.

“Stop whining, you baby,” Aina says.

“It's _cold,”_ Lio says, in what he considers to be a perfectly reasonable tone of voice.

“It'll warm up in a second.” She rubs her hands briskly over his face, avoiding his mouth and eyes for the moment. “There, that should feel better. Hold on to the moisturizer, try and put it on before you go to bed.” She drops the tube in Lio's lap; he considers pointing out that this is a significant escalation in time commitments, considers the value of picking his battles, and pockets the moisturizer.

“That can soak in while I figure out what I'm doing,” Aina says, and pulls the case into her lap, studying the contents. The things she used on Galo are apparently eliminated from contention, for reasons that presumably make sense. Lio's a little surprised that Galo leans over her shoulder, but Galo listens to people he likes and he has a serious appreciation for dramatic style. It makes sense.

“You should use the red one on him,” Galo says, holding up a tube that Lio is fairly sure is more lipstick; Aina, however, shakes her head.

“Look how different your skin tones are,” she says, gesturing at the back of Lio's hand. “He's too pale, he'd just look orange.”

“I'm right here,” Lio points out.

“How do you feel about silver?” Aina asks him. Lio glances down at himself, the bristle of silver bustles on black leather.

“Silver works,” he says.

“Hm. Hm hm hm.” She clicks her tongue, picking other things out. _“None_ of us are as pale as you, I don't have a lot to work with. Your eyes are cool, though, I can do something with that...”

“Your eyes are _great,_ ” Galo says, beaming up at him. Lio's ears heat up.

“I'm going to drop you both in a lake again,” Aina says. “Lio, close your eyes.”

Lio gives her a look that he hopes conveys his opinion about that set of sentences, but, there not being a lake in evidence, he does close his eyes. The sensation of the brush over and around his eyelids is strange: dry and soft and gentle, an alien feeling but a pleasant one. The brush recedes –

“No, no, keep them closed!” Aina says. “There's going to be layers.” Galo laughs what Lio recognizes as the laugh of the once-rookie, now watching someone else make the same mistake they once did. On the one hand, Lio is always happy to hear Galo laugh; on the other, this could have happened to anybody else.

Aina's hands are a cool pressure as they settle again on his face, and he's pleased to find he still doesn't mind. Her touch is neither impersonal nor too interested: gentle and attentive, but not a caress. He's a little entertained to find he can tell when she switches between brushes, though the powders on his skin all feel the same. (He _can_ feel them, not unpleasant but definitely there.)

“Huh,” Aina says, sitting back. “Open?” He does, half-expecting to find the world faintly more reflective. It isn't. Aina purses her lips. “Okay, I'm going to see what I can do with your eyebrows before I do the rest of your eyes.”

“I'm not letting you shave off my eyebrows,” Lio says, just in case that's heading towards this conversation.

“I wasn't going to! Look straight ahead.”

“You had a pencil, last time,” Lio says, glancing again at the vivid sharp line of Galo's eyebrows, always fascinating and made sharper. What Aina is wielding is the hundred-and-twelfth brush and a small disc of green powder.

“I don't have an eyebrow pencil in a color that will work on you,” Aina says. “I might use this anyway, actually, your eyebrows are really pale – it's just eyeshadow, technically, but I can use it on your eyebrows too, and it's harder to go too far by accident.”

“If you say so,” Lio says dubiously, realizing as he says it that it's a rare sentiment in his life. “Do I close my eyes for this part?”

“Doesn't matter,” Aina says, and leans in again, tongue again sticking out the corner of her mouth. Just past the edge of her hand, Lio can see Galo watching, biting gently at his own lower lip. The rich red just... isn't getting any easier to deal with.

“There,” Aina says, sooner than Lio expected. Apparently eyebrows are easier, especially as his eyes apparently _aren't done yet._ “Okay, hm. Eyeliner!”

“How many things does she have in that thing?” Lio demands of Galo, having given up on understanding anything else Aina says until this adventure is over.

“Oh, tons _,_ ” Galo says. “It's like the firetruck, actually.” This actually makes sense to Lio, as it wouldn't have a few months ago: space efficiently used, each tool in its clear-marked place.

“Look up,” Aina says, uncapping another fine-tipped pencil, honed to a razor's point. Something cold turns over in Lio's stomach; he presses his hand flat against the side of the chair, swallowing. It's not _that_ sharp. It can't be. It's meant to go near eyes; it can't be dangerous.

She gets about an inch away from his eye before he flinches back.

“Hold still!”

“I know!” he snaps, and straightens up, holding himself rigid. Closer, closer the point comes; he grits his teeth, he's not going to be ridiculous about this –

The point brushes his eye and he throws himself back, grip clamping down on Aina's wrist. The fire at his hands will guard him, will keep him safe till he burns out –

“So,” Galo says, “not that one.”

“Maybe not,” Lio says, loosening his grip on Aina's arm, finger by uncooperative finger. “Sorry about that.”

“It's fine, I've had worse,” she says, and gives her wrist a brief rub. Her nose wrinkles thoughtfully, looking between him and the box.

“How about something less sharp?” he offers, because he _had_ wanted, genuinely, to go along with this. To make an effort.

“I have those,” she says, and leans forward, reaching for his jaw again. She stops a finger's-width from his skin; he gives her a faint nod, and gets his face regarded in the light, her calluses catching on his skin. They're in the same place as Galo's, smaller on her smaller hands, which is interesting. “Okay, I could do something with liquid eyeliner and this. It's just going to be a brush –”

“Of course it's a brush –”

“Well, yeah,” Galo says, “she's just painting.”

Both of them blink at him for a moment.

“Huh, yeah,” Aina says finally. “I guess that's true.” She turns back to Lio, now unscrewing an elongated cone. “Here, feel this before I put it in your face.” She flicks it along the back of his arm, leaving a vivid inky line; it does, in fact, not feel remotely sharp.

“And I can hold your hand!” Galo offers; Lio glares.

“I'm not a child.”

“Yeah, I know, I just want to hold your hand some more.” Galo smiles at him, the glitter around his eyes picking up the gleam of the firehouse light, because Galo didn't smile brightly enough already. No one could be expected to resist. Lio settles his hand in Galo's palm, lacing their fingers together, and turns back to Aina, who is conveying _longsuffering_ with every muscle in her face at once.

“Go ahead,” Lio says, with all the dignity he can muster.

“Do _not_ move your face while I'm doing this,” she says, and leans in until they're almost nose-to-nose. “Okay, look up.”

This one feels wet and tacky, drying on his skin with astonishing speed; Aina takes as long about it as she did with the powders, her whole face furrowed up in focus. Lio does his best to breathe between her brushstrokes. Finally she sits back, nodding in satisfaction.

“Can I do mascara?” she asks. Lio vaguely remembers that being the spikey one, and winces.

“It doesn't actually touch your eyes,” Galo volunteers. “You just blink! It's easy.”

“Is it sharp?”

“No, it's a brush.” Aina inspects the box, pulls out another tube – _not_ the one she used on Galo – and reveals another cluster of spikes. “Want me to use it on your hand first?”

Lio extends one finger for answer, wary, and is very surprised to find that a mascara wand feels like nothing so much as a tiny toilet brush. Stiff, but not nearly the torture-implement it resembles. “That's all it is?” he asks, poking it again and getting his fingertip liberally smeared with blackness for his trouble.

“I said it's a brush!” Aina says. “I'm just going to hold it out like this and tell you to blink, see?” She demonstrates holding it out in the air, horizontal.

“All right,” Lio says stiffly, and holds himself still. It's definitely unsettling, but it also _stops moving,_ and when he blinks as ordered it isn't painful, only odd. Galo's thumb drags across the back of his knuckles, and Lio is never, ever going to admit it, but it does help.

“Other eye,” she says, and it's easier the second time.

“Anything else?” Lio asks.

“Just lipstick,” she says. “I don't have a blush I can do anything fun with, I don't think.” What she pulls out of the case looks more like Lio thought lipstick would look, not the little sponge-on-a-stick she used on Galo, and it's a vivid pink that makes Lio think of long-gone flame, though it isn't the same shade. “Purse your lips.” He does. “No, _purse_ them.” He does. “No, like this!” She does exactly what he's doing with his lips; he glares at her and sticks his own out like a duck. “There we go.”

The lipstick is a strange waxy texture and tastes oddly, artificially floral; Aina coaxes his mouth through another series of contortions, blotting his mouth on a tissue at intervals. The touch of her fingers on his mouth feels isn't sensual or intrusive, just present and practical. Her hands are cool, comfortably so.

“There,” she says at last, and sits back. Lio glances first at Galo, who is – slack-jawed, eyes wide, and Lio wants to press two fingers into that red, red mouth and make those gleaming eyes fall closed. Then Aina hands him a mirror – he's extremely suspicious of this case – and: oh.

She turned Galo luminous, warm and shining as the sun; Lio looks like a poisonous snake, or something lethal tricked out in neon and chrome. His eyes gleam pink under smooth black wings of paint that flare out to vicious points on his temples, and his eyelids are washed deep and silver-blue, mysterious and warning. His mouth is a hot and dangerous pink; he smiles, experimental, and watches the corners of his lips curl up in authoritative, condescending amusement. Somehow, the paint and glitter feels like his armor in ways a mech could never do.

“I like it,” he says, low. “Thank you.” He'd expected to look – interesting, maybe, but not like himself. Not like a part of himself that flesh alone can't show. He meets Aina's eyes in the mirror, and watches the grin light up her face.

“Should I go get one of the others?” Lio asks.

“Nope, I've had enough for today.” She turns away, starts packing things back into her case; Lio gathers up the brushes, lining them up next to each other on the tabletop for her to put where they belong. Galo is still kind of gaping, lips still bright red and tempting. Lio crosses behind him, sets one hand on his shoulder and leans in to his ear.

“Don't wash it off before we get home,” he says, as quietly as he can and still have Galo hear. Galo, of course, nods as obviously as a human being ever can, and Lio's close enough to hear the small hitch in his breath. Heat coils low and quick, deep in his gut.

Lio steps away just in time for Aina to turn around and catch the brushes waiting. “Oh! Thanks.”

Lio just shrugs. “It seemed only fair.” Glancing again at the mirror, he adds, “We could do this again sometime.”

“Oh, we're going to.” She smiles back, though, soft and glad and dawning: an artist's smile, not the art. A happy artist; an admired friend. “Guaranteed.”


End file.
